Missing Scene - Sins of the Past
by rsharpe
Summary: The aftermath of Vin's attempted escape from jail.


THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN

MISSING SCENE FROM "SINS OF THE PAST"

AUTHOR: Rita Clark

E-MAIL: ritalois@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: All the usual stuff, they ain't mine and I get absolutely nothin' for writin' about 'em, with the addition of the fact that Wen made me do this.

RATING: PG, I guess. A bit of violence and a little cussin'.

NOTES: Spoilers for "Sins of the Past". Vin gets hurt and Chris gets pissed. As I said before, Wen made me do it.

ARCHIVE: Yes

Vin Tanner sat quietly on the bunk in the jail cell he had occupied since the previous evening. Four men, a Federal Marshal and three deputies from Texas, had assaulted him as he was putting his gear up for the night. Their arrival and his subsequent arrest had taken him completely by surprise. Now he was going to be taken back to Tuscosa to stand trial and probably hang for a murder he didn't commit. A murder he had been framed for. After a sleepless night, he had paced the cell all morning cursing himself for his stupidity, unable to rest. But now he appeared to be simply staring indifferently at the activity in the office just beyond the second set of bars. He sat still but his mind was working feverishly, weighing odds and chances, looking for the optimum moment to make his move. 

At first, he had decided not to try anything here in town. He would wait until they were on the trail to Texas and the men guarding him had relaxed. But he had reconsidered that decision and now he was determined to make a break here. Vin knew his skills as a tracker would serve him well if he waited to try his luck outside of town but he also knew that these men were totally unfamiliar with the back streets and alleys of Four Corners. If he surprised them and got out the back door he could be at the livery before they knew what had hit them and miles away before they could recover from their surprise.

Preparations were being made for the return trip to Texas. Yates, the Federal Marshal, was loading and checking his pistol. He had already loaded his rifle and laid it on the small table with his saddlebags. Two of the deputies who were with him were still eating their evening meal, one was perched on the front desk and the other man was seated at the roll top desk in the corner with his back to the others. Sunlight slanted through the front windows from the dusty street. It was late afternoon and as far as Vin could tell, they planned to get an early start for Texas in the morning.

"Mind givin' me some of them beans? Might slow ya'all down if I'm goin' empty."

Yates glanced at Vin, then nodded his permission to one of his deputies to give him some of the food. He finished reloading, holstered his pistol and stepped out the front door.

The older deputy dished up some beans on a tin plate, added a piece of bread and, fumbling with the large key ring, began to open the inner cell door to hand the plate to Vin. As soon as Vin heard the click of the lock he rushed the man. Uncoiling like a cat from his perch on the bunk, he pushed him back and out of his way with the cell door, throwing him and the contents of the plate to the floor. The other deputy scraped his chair back and grabbed for Vin as he went for the gun. Vin's right fist connected with his jaw and the man went down from the punch. In two steps Vin had reached the gun he had spotted earlier and pulled it from the holster hanging on a hook. He turned and found the younger deputy coming for him again. The first man was still sprawled in the space between the two sets of bars. Vin knew that before he could get out the back door he had to get around these two. Vin pushed the deputy against the bars of the outer enclosure and they fought for control of the pistol Vin held. But Yates had either heard or sensed something and he came back in the front door with a rush. 

"What's goin' . . .?"

When Yates saw that Vin and the deputy were fighting over the gun in Vin's hand, he grabbed his rifle from the table. The big man slammed the wooden butt into the small of Vin's back. Vin crumpled to the floor without a sound and Yates brought the gun butt down hard to the back of Vin's head, knocking him unconscious. One of the deputies grabbed the gun from Vin's loose grasp as he fell. Then he began to kick Vin in anger but the Marshal stopped him.

"That's enough. He's learned his lesson. Lock him back up."

Vin's limp body was dragged roughly back into the cell. He fell hard onto the floor beside the bunk. Both deputies viciously kicked him again after Yates turned and went back out into the street but Vin didn't even move. He was still unconscious when Chris Larabee returned to the jail in the early evening.

The interior of the sheriff's office was dim and the cells at the back of the room were in deep shadow. Only a single lantern burned near the front desk occupied by one of Yates' men. It took Chris Larabee a moment or two to realize that Vin Tanner was not sitting or lying on the single bunk in his cell. He was on the floor beside the bunk and he wasn't moving.

"Unlock this door."

The deputy rose from his chair and started to tell the black clad man to go to hell but he stopped when he saw his face. Instead of saying something that would have gotten him hurt very quickly, he opened the desk drawer and retrieved the key ring. His hand shook slightly as he used it to open the cell door. Chris pushed him out of the way and went inside.

Chris knelt by Vin's side and put a hand on his shoulder. At Chris' touch, Vin flinched away and moaned softly. He tried to put up his hands to stop the blow he thought was coming.

"Go get Nathan Jackson at the saloon. The colored man. DO IT NOW!"

Deciding that he'd rather be yelled at by Yates than killed by this pistolero, the deputy ran out the door and across the street to the saloon. He returned with Nathan following him.

"What happened, Chris?" Nathan took Chris' place at Vin's side. Chris merely turned his head toward the now thoroughly terrified deputy. 

"You heard the doc."

"Uh, well, he tried to escape and we stopped him."

"Wait outside."

"Now look, mister, I'm a deputy Federal marshal and . . ."

His voice trailed off as Chris took a step towards him. Judging that they weren't actually going to do anything but patch the prisoner up, he retreated out the door to a chair on the boardwalk to wait for Marshal Yates.

Nathan ran practiced hands over Vin to gauge the extent of his injuries. He took his time as Chris anxiously hovered nearby. 

"Let's get him onto the bunk."

The two men lifted Vin as gently as they could and laid him on the rumpled bedding. Vin gave a low moan at the pain from his side and the dizziness from the movement. He slowly began to come around.

"Is he all right?"

"Worst thing is that cut on the back of his head. He musta took a pretty good knock. Bleeding has stopped though. I'm going back to my rooms and get some things. I need to clean the head wound and I may have to bandage him up."

"I'll stay with him."

Nathan nodded and headed to the second floor rooms he used as living quarters, office and beds for patients when they were needed. He gathered up the supplies he would require and was back at the jail within ten minutes.

Chris had gotten a cup of water for Vin who was now trying to sit up on the bunk. Vin's hands were unsteady as he guided the cup to his mouth and drank deeply. He handed the cup back to Chris and glanced at Nathan.

"Vin, I need to clean off the blood on the back of your head and look at the cut. If you can sit up for a few minutes I'll get started." 

Nathan opened his bag and got out some clean rags and a bottle of whiskey as a disinfectant. He helped Vin shrug out of his coat and slid his leather suspenders down one at a time. Chris came back with a lantern for Nathan to use while he worked.

"Chris, help him get his shirt off. I don't know if some of his ribs are broke or not."

"I'm okay, Nathan. Nothin's broke. Just patch up my head."

"Vin, take your shirt off and let Nathan check you."

Vin stood up shakily with Chris' help and unbuttoned his shirt. Pulling it from his pants he tried to slip the material off his shoulders but gasped in pain and clutched his side. With the ease of practice, Nathan helped him remove his shirt and gently turned Vin toward the light from the lantern. 

Vin's lower back and side just above the band of his pants were rapidly turning several ugly shades of black and blue. The worst of the bruises were where Yates had used his rifle stock but these were almost matched in intensity by the marks from the deputies' heavy boots. Chris looked at the younger man's injuries and began cursing steadily. He turned on his heel and started for the door but Nathan called him back.

"Chris, I need your help with Vin. That can wait."

"Chris, don't. He's a Federal Marshal. Law's on his side."

Chris reluctantly turned away from the door and came back into the cell. He steadied Vin while Nathan wound strips of white cloth around his ribs to support him while he healed. He tied off the cloth strips so that they would hold securely, then Nathan cleaned off the cut on his head and seemed satisfied with what he found. 

"I ain't gonna have to stitch that cut, Vin. But you may still be a little dizzy for a while."

Chris helped Vin put his shirt back on while Nathan gathered his things and, after cautioning Vin about moving around too much for the rest of the evening, he returned to his rooms. 

After Vin was settled back on the bunk, Chris retrieved a stool from the office and sat beside him. The two friends remained silent for a while, but this was not the comfortable silence of simple companionship. One of the friends was in deep trouble and they both knew it.

"Chris, I meant what I said this mornin'. Don't go messin' with Yates over this. I brought it on myself."

"And I meant what I said. I ain't lettin' you hang. And I ain't lettin' Yates or anybody else get away with beatin' you."

Both men lapsed into silence for a few minutes, until Vin glanced up at Chris with a small grin.

"Looks like a Mexican standoff, then."

Chris smiled back and nodded.

"Yep. Reckon we're both too stubborn for our own good."

The front door opened and Yates walked in with a puzzled look on his face. Chris surged to his feet before he could ask whatever questions he had intended to pose to him.

"I'll say this one time, Yates. You or nobody else ever lay a hand on this boy again or I'll shoot you where you stand. That ain't Federal law, that's my law."

"Now look here, Larabee. He jumped my men and tried . . ."

Chris had stepped away from the open cell door to stand inches away from Yates as the marshal started to sputter his excuses for his prisoner's ill treatment. He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw murder in the gunslinger's cold green eyes.

"Well, I guess they got a little rough, but . . . "

"Reckon you didn't hear me."

Their eyes locked for a very long time but Yates looked away first.

"Yeah, I heard you."

Chris nodded briefly to the man then turned back to Vin. He was trying to sit up but couldn't quite manage to get upright without grimacing in pain. 

"Take it easy, Vin. I'm goin' now and let you try to get some sleep. I'm bettin' you didn't sleep much last night."

"Nope. Bet you didn't either, pard."

Chris smiled at the man who had become his closest friend in such a short time. Someone who he couldn't imagine not having with him, at his side, in a gunfight, a barroom brawl, or a card game. A man who seemed to complete him and helped to ease the pain that had consumed him for so long. A man who he was determined would not be dragged back to Tuscosa in chains.

"I'll see you in the mornin', then."

Vin nodded and he and Chris exchanged the arm clasp that had become their substitute for the traditional handshake most men favored. It was a gesture that seemed to mean a lot to Vin and Chris had adopted it without question.

"In the mornin'."

Without another word to Yates, Chris retrieved his hat from the desk and went out into the quiet street. It was long since dark and the smoke from the street fires hung in the still air. He stepped down from the boardwalk and with determined strides made his way across to the brightly lit saloon to find the others. There were plans to be made.

Comments? Send to [ritalois@yahoo.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:ritalois@yahoo.com



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